This is my hair…

I went to our church’s after service Bring a Dish Dinner on Saturday. After gathering a small sample from the variety of food brought I sat down at the table with about 12 parishioners. We are a multi-cultured and multi-faceted sometimes too complacent group who regularly attend Saturday services. At times, as we eat, conversation involves  politics, the sensational headline of the week, who said what to who or whom or the rantings of verbal word hogs, who cannot or will not shut up.

I sat at the table, sampling the variety of food brought and sipped at my half filled/half empty cup of wine. The conversation was lively with advice on handymans, cats and animal behaviourist, wine, why such and such wasn’t recommend for such and such and then BAM out of nowhere…

Parishioner #1-“Hey, did you go to the salon? Your hair looks short.”


Me-“Yes. I went to a curly hair salon”.


Parishioner #1-“Oh. Well its short.”

Parishioner #2-“I thought you were wearing a wig.”

Me-“I’m not wearing a wig. I went to a curly hair salon.”

Silence, and change of subject as I extinguished the hot lava of verbal words not appropriate for church from my vocal chords.

My hair, normally tied captive into a puff had gone through its emancipation from the cotton bandana the week before during a visit to the Devachan salon in NYC. It was finally free to curl up into tight corkscrews drenched in the best moisturizer (Devachan One) that I EVER, EVER, EVER used and the most expensive condition I EVER, EVER, EVER bought.

It was worth it, and not like Loreal .

Since I did not have the emotional strength to relay the trials and tribulation of having the hair which no advertisers for commercials will show swinging in the breeze during prime time television-I use this forum to vent.

In pictures…

This was my hair on the ‘creamy crack’ when it was long.

Assisting through 013 (2)

This was my hair on the creamy crack when it was short.

Short straight

This was my hair in locks..boy how skinny I was back in the day. Maybe this is the start of another post, ‘This is my body when…’


This was my hair all gone.

Shaved off

This is my hair growing back.

Growing out

This is how I hid my hair when it was growing back.

Hiding the hair

This is my mom’s hair which in no way shape or form resembles mine.

Mom's hair

This is my hair, now…in its puff-a-souras glory.


This is my hair when it is wet…I wish it would look like this when its dry-actually it does look like this !

wet hair

This is my hair when we run.

Hair for running

I once had blonde locks before it was in vogue, as well as a Gerry Curl in all its goopy, dripping glory that left its own gelatin calling card behind on every headrest it encountered

My hair as I stated before, represents who I am and where I come from and I do not apologize for its refusal to fit into what society’s obsessiveness with European looks wants it to be.

‘nuff said.

Feeling groovy…

Groovy –adj. groov·i·er, groov·i·est Slang Very pleasing; wonderful.

In the realm of my being it is not very often, the feeling of ‘groovy’ in my world comes around.  Actually, it’s rare.  But when it does, it tends to stick on my shirt sleeve for about an hour or so before moving on to its next honourary recipient (depending on how one views this, for feeling groovy is not good for those who are quite content to wallow in misery).

Feeling groovy for me is as the definition above states: very pleasing; wonderful. For a few minutes I am in bliss, over an accomplishment, thought, a good read, a good piece of writing, a really good sermon or Pi Patel not engaging in negative dogspeak with the brown Piti at Ppark to name a few.

This is how I feel when I am feeling groovy as demonstrated by Pi Patel.

This is how the boys act when I’m feeling groovy. groovy

Their reaction does not matter for it is my groovy and not theirs. They feel groovy at biscuit time, bath time, Ppark time, feeding time, sleeping time and especially at belly rubbing time. Bless them, for they have no triggerings to get them to their state of groovy and once there, it lingers well past an hour before naptime.

I wish my feeling groovy was in sync with those around me, than a massive groovy fest could occur.

Unfortunately, groovy is as groovy does not as groovy as one wants it to be. When I feel groovy and others do not, I see them and their views as raining down on my groovy. I long to seek solitude and surround myself with incense and singing bowls in order to keep my groovy as long as I can while creating a chain link fence of spiritual strength to block out the ungrooviness of others.

Right now, at this time. I feel groovy.

Slow down, you move too fast, you’ve got to make the morning last
Just kickin’ down the cobble-stones, lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy

Feeling groovy

Hello lamp-post, what’s cha knowing, I’ve come to watch your flowers growin’
Ain’t cha got no rhymes for me, do-it-do-do, feelin’ groovy

Feeling groovy

I’ve got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I’m dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morning time drop all its petals on me

Life I love you, all is groovy-Simon and Garfunkel